


Imbalance: Quietness

by Lady_R



Series: Imbalance [3]
Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, Past Rape/Non-con, Sulyvahn is a thot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 19:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17249945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_R/pseuds/Lady_R
Summary: Lorian, elder prince of Lothric, has died in his sleep. Nobody, not even his brother, can explain why.Lothric, the prince's twin brother, feels abandoned by his parents and clings to his mentor as a life source. Sulyvahn, as kind as he's wise, tells him to leave the pain behind and keep on going. But is it really what the young boy needs?





	Imbalance: Quietness

His Eminence Sulyvahn has studied a lot. His black eyes, on his ivory face, have a vivacious and vigil stare. In other times, Lothric would have remained looking at him with the joy of an average youth. 

In other times, Lothric and Lorian would have remained looking at him. _Times passed,_ Sulyvahn says. _Pain is poison. Suppress it, my child. Lock it away where it can’t hurt you_. 

Lothric has a tear at the corner of his eye, lungs burning under his thin, pained ribs.Sulyvahn raises his gaze from the open page of the Great Darkmoon Liturgy and shakes his head towards him, raven curls dancing on his tall, smooth forehead. 

-Your Majesty, the tears. You were going so good.- 

Lothric holds his shaking hands onto his tunic. _Pain is poison_. The man of the Church’s deep, smooth voice rings in the young prince’s head like the perpetual chiming of a chapel bell. Emma has always wanted to have them melted. They’re just noise, she says, and faith mustn’t be intrusive. Sometimes it’s hard for Lothric to believe that Sulyvahn and Emma perform the same job.

Emma isn’t there, though, and Lothric has to cling on what he can find. 

-I beg for forgiveness, Eminence.- he pants. -The grief is strong yet.- 

-I know, poor dear.- Sulyvahn places a hand on his shoulder, as cold as night. -Yet, you have finely behaved at the funeral. You’re regal without a doubt. Follow this route, and your loss will slip away like ice kissed by the sun.- 

Lothric tenses, shrinking in the coarse fabric of his tunic like in a wool blanket. He uses a tip of his hood to wipe the corner of his eye. He has never been more tired, not ever, in years and years of weak arms and shaking limbs. Maybe because _before_ , Lorian was there to help him up. He turns to the window, lit up by the midday. 

-Do you think death is truly eternal?-

Sulyvahn shakes his head. -Talking about death will damage you. We must proceed with your studies. You’re a gifted youth. I’ll make for your pain to fade soon.- 

-My thanks.- Lothric doesn’t feel like talking, not even to Sulyvahn. He’d bury himself in his bed, if only he could, and hide his face under the blankets until the end of time. Maybe he’d cry, at least for a bit, but he has wept enough for that whole day. If only the kingdom did need a prince, it can wait. Lothric the boy comes before the kingdom of Lothric – at least he thinks so, as since that fatal day it has been as if not anyone else, except good Sulyvahn, had noticed he’s there.  

-I wish Mother and Father were here.- escapes him.

-I see.- Sulyvahn whispers. -Pain leads to making mistakes. You have me, dearest child. I know it’s not the same thing.-

-You do your best.- Lothric raises his hand. He wants him to be quiet, for a bit at least. _He’s not my father. I wonder what would it be of us, of_ me _, if he was_. 

Sulyvahn places a hand on his shoulder, without holding him tightly. Lothric sighs again, more tired than before. 

-Listen.- he suddenly exclaims, and retreats from his shoulder as if they were about to attack him. Lothric’s head thumps as thundering steps climb from the corridor. He retreats on his chair, rigid. A silent instinct tells him to prepare a spell, but his fingers dangle motionless on his holy skirt. He sniffs and waits immobile. A Lothric Knight enters, hand on the hilt of the sword; then another, and a third with a spear. 

And afterwards Father comes in, staff in his hand, as pale as a skeleton in his black wool coat.

-Father?- Lothric opens his eyes, retreating towards Sulyvahn.

-My king.- the religious man whispers. -What leads you up here?-

-Quiet, and let go of my child.- Father’s cheeks, recently scarred, are as red as pomegranates. He grabs Lothric by the wrist and tugs him towards himself like a tourney mannequin. -You’re done with my son. You’re under arrest.-

Lothric clenches his fist. His shoulder, brusquely crooked, hurts to the bone. _My father lost his mind_. -For what?- he pants. -He hasn’t done anything to me.- Sulyvahn stands in front of them, imperturbable. 

-Luckily.- The king lets go of his wrist and strokes his cheek. Lothric winces in contact to the thick leather glove. -I wouldn’t imagine if he did it to you.- 

-Do what?-

-Lothric, leave.- 

-No!- the prince yells. Oceiros steps backwards, fist clenched. -Why are you having him arrested? What did he do?- 

Oceiros stomps his foot. -I told you to leave. Lothric, please.- He turns to a knight on his side. -Take him and bring him to my room. He mustn’t…-

-Don’t you dare grab me!- The knight tenses and moves back with the other two. Lothric intakes a breath so big his lungs hurt. 

-What are you even accusing him of?- Oceiros has stopped looking at him, and clenches his fists around his tunic. _Why is he doing this?_ Lothric leans on his desk, scratching the wood with his long nails. -Father, I don’t get it. He did nothing. You have no proof of anything.-

Oceiros brings his hand to his forehead. -I’m sorry to expose you to this. I have no proof, sure, but I can’t allow this man to walk around you anymore.- 

-He has consoled me! You haven’t! You had vanished!-

Tears fall on Lothric’s cheeks, a thin and cold sweat covers the back of his head. _My father is gone and hates us all_. Lorian would be strong enough to silence him. He’s gone now, leaving him in the hands of Father and Mother – and a Flame that comes closer yet like a storm on the horizon, whose deadly heat only Sulyvahn seems to notice. 

-Lorian is dead, and you…- Lothric spits a ball of drool on the carpet, holding himself on his knuckles like the apes from his bestiaries. -Are you envious, maybe? A _bleach cleric_ is better a father than you?- 

-Sulyvahn groped me!-

Lothric’s arms drop, the boy bends on the floor. A metallic hand grabs onto his back before he can reach the ground.

_It makes no sense_. He stares at Father’s face, wrinkled by wrath, and Sulyvahn’s smooth, pearly one. Many great people of faith are horrible, but not his mentor. King, wise, gentle, paternal. Lothric frantically shakes his head. _He hasn’t stroked me with a nail without me wanting so. But I’m not Father_ : and Oceiros, for what’s worth, is the worst liar Lothric has ever seen. 

-Groped you?-

Lothric’s voice is coarse, and Oceiros leans on a knight behind himself.

-I’m so sorry, Lothric. I didn’t mean to tell you so, but I couldn’t stay silent any further. He touched me indeed.-

-I know not what you’re talking about.- Sulyvahn steps forward, keeping his smile. -My king, I’m a priest. I vowed chastity and celibacy.- 

-And yet, you groped me. You remember it no more, you so good at memorizing sermons? There, in the garden. And then you brought up my reputation to silence me, but I care about nothing no more.-

Sulyvahn shakes his head, a humid brightness on his white forehead. -Your mind is consumed by loss. You know not what you’re saying.-

-And yet,- Oceiros grabs his shoulder and clings his nails into the holy garb, -I’ve never been more lucid in my whole life.- 

Lothric massages his shoulder, confusedly. Father has never been indelicate, with him. Even stroking his shoulder was a capital crime. _Could he be telling the truth?_ He feels himself pale at that thought. Sulyvahn is a pious man, wise, he has listened to him with parental sweetness as he wept for his brother. 

-Sit down, my king.- the priest says. -Your memory is fooling you, thoughts escape you. Your face is proof of it. Your child is looking at you. Do not cause him more pointless pain.-

Oceiros tenses. looks at Lothric with agape, reddened eyes. The king’s cheekbones pop from under the skin of his defiled cheeks, his graying beard is an unkempt and unbrushed bush. Even what he’s wearing is a gaberdine, black and opaque, without jewels or embroidery to enrich it. Father possesses plenty of black tunics, each more precious and ornate than the others. It looks as if he wants to hide from sigh, as if he was scared. 

Yet he stretches his back, he looks again at the priest in front of himself. 

-Take this pervert and his lies away.-

Lothric Knights walk towards the religious man, drawn swords and pointed spear. Sulyvahn’s hands run on his father’s mourning tunic, grab onto it, lacerate the black velvet like paper, and the king’s chest bursts white and bare from under the shreds of fabric. _One can see his ribs_. Lothric leans his head forward, glimpses at Oceiros grabbing the frayed strips and pulling them on his chest like the edges of a shawl. -Take him away, right now.- He’s hunched on himself, certainly to cover himself better, but Lothric has never seen him so _bent_. The two sword-wielding knights grab Sulyvahn from under his armpits, the third aims his spear at his back. Lothric shuts his eyes, shrinking into his chair. He’s out of breath, the light at the window widens on him like a wave, drowning him.

-Lothric!- somebody screams. The prince barely lifts his head. It would be so great: but it’s not Lorian, Lorian is _dead_ , and Sulyvahn groped his father’s intimacy, and none of what’s happening makes sense anymore. Lothric flattens himself to the side, hair slipping into his mouth, and lets himself faint without saying anything else. 

 

The first thing he sees is the books. The spines are dark, glistening like pearls against the light of dusk. The shelves seem to vanish on high, blurring into a wooden sky without a sun to clear it. He’s laying on something soft.

-Lothric, dearest.- a deep voice whispers.

Lothric clenches his eyes, shedding tears. Air is there and it’s warm, with a vague scent of pine. His foggy eyes distinguish a skinny profile, two white hands bursting from under a black dress. _Sulyvahn_ , he instinctively thinks. _But it can’t be true: Sulyvahn did an awful thing and he’s been arrested as it should be_. He looks again at the sitting form, and tenses seeing a bluish brightness on their chest. 

-Father?-

-Lothric, you’re awake. Don’t strain yourself. Is your head spinning, love?-

Lothric pants out a no and blinks. He lays on the side on a tender sofa. Oceiros sits next to him, his mourning tunic stretched around his waist and a pile of books on his knees. The tunic itself is different from that morning, integer, black wool with smoke embroidery, covered by a just as black cape. The blue hair burst from under his lifted hood. He smiles with his lips, but his eyes betray him. 

Lothric blinks. Tears burn like acid in his tired eyes. Lorian would notice it. He had his own, unrepeatable way of wiping them. Father, instead, always holds him as if he wants to absorb him into himself, in the wide flaps of his too-wide tunics. It’s not as unpleasant as if could be, but if often leaves him breathless. It’s only then, in those cases, that Oceiros puts him down. 

The king places the books on the sofa, by his side. Now that they’re close, Lothric can take a better look at him. His bears is freshly shaved, his eyes finely outlined by the kajal. Strangely, he’s not wearing gloves, and the nails on his skinny fingers, varnished in cobalt blue, are filed short, 

-There’s a nice smell, here.- the prince murmurs confusedly. Only then does he notice a tray in the middle of the table. His father lifts the cover, and a sweet, soft aroma suddenly hits at his nostrils. Lothric has a chill, but it’s not strong enough to hurt his lungs. 

A smoking metal kettle, three empty cups, and a plate filled with brown sweets, the size of the king’s fist. 

-I thought it was forbidden to eat, in the Archives.- Father hates for the books to get greasy and covered in crumbs. Once he had broken a young scholar’s finger, with his staff. He was eating an apple with a copy of History of the Fall of the Iron Keep, covered in lion skin, on his knees. 

-I am the king, I can do as I please.- Father takes a sweet and rips half of it off with one bite. A stream of crumbs falls onto his lap and tangles in his beard. He wipes himself with the back of his hand. 

-Nutmeg cream pies. Come on, take one.-

-What of those cups?-

-Hawthorn infusion. You can put honey in it.- Oceiros points at a glass jar, from which the grip of a piece of cutlery sticks out. -It’s light. I can help you drink it, if the cup is heavy.- 

Lothric nods, keeping his eyes down. He likes the smell, and despite the lit chimney he feels himself chilling. Father fills two cups to the brim and pours spoonfuls of honey in his.

-Want some?-

-No, thanks.- 

The tinkling of Oceiros’ spoon as it spins in the cup,sounds against the popping of the wood in the chimney. Lothric stretches his tongue into the tea. Warm, but not to the point of burning it. But the foam gets him teary eyed, and his fingers shake around the cup. The liquid pours on his chest, making him wail. Lothric shuts his eyes.

Two bigger fingers grab onto the back of his. -Easy there, dearest. I told you, I’ll hold you if it’s too heavy.- 

The thumbs stroke his tense skin, Lothric sniffs.

-I’m sorry.-

-It’s nothing.- 

_Why can’t we talk?_ Oceiros has never been so sweet, so close – and he wants to savor it for a bit. He wishes to be able to understand something, but at the same time shut his ears and forget about existing.

But it was Sulyvahn who told him to forget, and Sulyvahn is a traitor. Lothric swallows and watches his father drink, eyes into the mug. He eyes the sweets awaiting in the plate.

-Come on, eat. Your brother would want you to eat.- 

He wants to talk about Lorian, there’s no escape: Lothric can’t escape from glimpsing into the dark mind of the man that brought him to life. And he wants to let it out. Sulyvahn had told him not to cry, but his words have no meaning. 

-I miss him so much.- he murmurs. 

-We all do, my beloved.- Oceiros puts the cup down and looks at him with wide, tired eyes. Under them, on his gaunt cheeks, the scars shine. 

-What happened to your face?-

The scars are fresh, as thick as one of Lothric’s own fingers, and have a vivacious ruby color. They give his face a sagging look, as if his skin had curled upon itself in thick, heavy rolls. He staggers back, as if Lothric had slapped him. -It’s nothing, my child. Just some scratches.- 

_A dagger would “scratch” less deeply_. He probably struck the open wounds many times. Lothric shakes his head, appalled. 

-You did it to yourself, though. With your own hands.- 

-I acted out of impulse, blinded by my emotions.- Oceiros opens his palms towards him. -But I’m calm now, Lothric, I swear. I don’t mean to hurt you. I know you’re in pain.- 

The discovery of hot water. Lothric tenses his fists. His clawed fingernails scratch his palms, his nose drips, and he quickly wipes it before Father can notice it. 

Sulyvahn had becalmed him for a bit, but he doesn’t dare to follow his teachings any further. Some Church people can be awful. _Milibeth’s Compendium_ tells about a religious woman from Lindelt who used miracles as an excuse to trick honest travelers, while Anastacia of Astora’s _Shrine Memories_ narrate of a warrior cleric who shamelessly abandoned his protégée. But something like that, and to a king! Even those two, at knowing it, would undoubtedly spit on Sulyvahn’s white face. 

And yet, there was something enticing in his advice to forget. For a moment he catches himself wishing that his father had stayed silent for a bit more, just the time to get over the biggest parts of the loss on the trail of the priest’s words. And then, only then, get rid of him. 

And when the thought fades, Prince Lothric feels more horrible than ever. 

-I’m sorry,- it escapes him, -for what has occurred between him and you.- 

Oceiros jumps, letting the books he holds on his knees fall down. Lothric tenses as his father grumbles a swearword and pulls it up, wiping the cover with the bare palm. His knuckles stick out along his ashy fingers. 

-Forgive me, Father. I thought he…-

-Hush, dearest. You had no way to know. He made sure I stayed quiet.- 

-But quietness hurts.- Lothric murmurs. -Was this, that bit at you so?-

Father nods, staring out the window. He sighs. Quietness hurts. And Lothric too has a fist grabbing at his throat, keeping his voice in even when he wants to speak.-

-Yes. He threatened me. He said I couldn’t have done anything against a religious man. I’d never want you to go through such a thing. It’s not the moment to speak of it, now.- 

-I understand. I won’t ask further.- 

Quietness hurts, but father and son stare at each other in silence. At least for a bit, until Oceiros averts his eyes again and stares at whatever flying above their heads. Lothric wishes he had the strength to punch one of the pillows on that soda. He raises his gaze too, searching for whatever the king was chasing after in the empty domes. He only resists a handful of seconds before his twisted neck starts hurting and his eyes tearing again. He shrinks away, towards the aromatic vapors of the tea. 

-I don’t like these archives. They’re too big.-

Oceiros lowers his eyes, suddenly, as if he had just woken up from a deep slumber. 

-They can be harsh at first, but they can offer great comfort. I had all the chimneys swept at dawn. I wanted a place to be in peace, warm.- He shrugs, wrapping himself in the cape. -With you.- 

-I doubt a book can make me feel better.- Lothric sighs. Father places a hand on his shoulder, faintly squeezing it.

A circumstance gesture, that any subject could offer him. Lothric covers his eyes with his hands, sighing of relief as the bony hold loosens up. It’s as if Father spoke a dialect unknown to him, that hardly fits with the one he uses.

_Or maybe,_ he thinks with dismay, _it was me and Lorian who had our own tongue. Now that he’s no longer here I’ll have to talk to myself_. He feels his face crumple up, his eyes pulsating in their sockets. 

-A dying one can have regrets, but not a dead one. The sweetness of life lose their meaning for the denizens of the Catacombs. New pleasures, born from the bones, replace them in their heart with no beating.- 

Lothric winces. _He’s reading: and I’ve just told him I’m not interested_. Father removes an azure strand of hair from his eye and turns the cover of his book to the prince. 

-Gravelord Sword Dance.- Lothric reads. 

-Back in the days of Lordran, a necromancer dove into the Catacombs to bring his lost child and wife to the living. This is what he wrote about it.-

It’s not hard to see why he pulled that one out. Lothric leans forward, stretching his neck towards the black leather cover. An alabaster skull, with dug-in eyes and realistic high-ground teeth, grins at him from the binding.

-And what was of him?-

-An Undead killed him.- Oceiros stares at the pages, as if he was hypnotized. -They weren’t eternal like Nito, even though they came to know him close enough to discover his secrets.-

-Nito is kind. That’s what Mother says too.-

-This tome is about him. Nito is kind, so kind he makes death sweet too. Now our Lorian is with him: Fenitos brush his hair, and Milfanitos sweeten his sleep with their singing.-

But he’s not here. _He’s not here_. A cursed prince isn’t enough to occupy the room of a fit one.-

-He only wanted to help. He thought sleeping next to me would have made me happy. I’m not even ready for the Flame. And now,- the prince covers his face with his hands and sobs into them, -now I’m so, so afraid.-

Skinny hands wrap around his back, pick him up, place him on thighs covered by a soft tunic. A wool blanket is placed around his back. .

-Sometimes I, too, think I’m still seeing him. As if it was nothing.- There’s a scratchiness, a strain, in Father’s voice. -As if he could reappear right there, in your room, and say hello to me.-

Lothric wails in the soft hold. Scrawny, pale fingers – so different from the full, rosy ones that were Lorian’s – brush his hair. 

-Father, I miss him so much.- he sobs. -I don’t know how to be, without him.- His lips tremble, he can’t resist. -I could burn now, for what I care.-

Oceiros shudders under him, the hands that stroke him hold him tighter. -No, my dearest. Don’t say those things. There’s no Flame in here.- 

-I want to be a Lord of Cinders!- Lothric roars. -It’s all that I have left. All that I can do for the house. Lorian fought. That is all I can do. I beg you, Father. You’re the first to tell me…-

Oceiros’ finger is placed on her mouth. Lothric turns back, clenching his eyelids. The sudden outburst gave me a shot of dizziness. 

-I’m the first to say many things. May the days I said them be damned.- 

_He’s suffering, and it’s the pain that’s talking_ : Lothric feels his stomach sink. Nothing makes sense anymore, in that castle. It’s as if, alongside Lorian, the foundation of their home were gone, and the glass at their windows, and the statues that he had challenged his brother to climb since they were children. Mother and Father can have another child – a hundred more too, the prince knows they can – but not another Lorian. And neither another Lothric, it appears.

_I should be strong: I’m the prince. But there’s no strength, in me_. Lothric sniffles. 

-Is it for what Sulyvahn did to you?- Oceiros widens his eyes, staring at him sideways. -I understand you’d be afraid of him, but his words make no sense to me. You mustn’t obey him.- 

-May the Abyss take that accursed religious man.- Father grits his teeth. -Swear to me that he never did such a thing to you. Swear it to me.-

Lothric faintly nods, but it appears to be enough for the king, because he sighs of relief. 

-And neither did he to Lorian.- Nor could he. -At least, he never said it to me.-

Oceiros brings his fingers to his eyes and lowers his head, grumbling. -So it is. There’s nothing more I can do to him. What has happened cannot change. Come to me, Lothric. Make me feel you’re here.- 

The prince holds his breath, hesitantly, and looks into his father’s tired, reddened eyes shining at the candlelight. He needs to be consoled, he desires it like air. His bones hurt, his skin itself feels uncomfortable, his tunic itches like cilice. The moment tears fall down, the prince drinks them as if they were the infusion Father has offered him. 

-Lothric, dearest. Are you crying?- 

Lothric bites his lip. _I was born with Lorian, lived at his side in a glass tower_. Now the glass has shattered, taking away his better half. He and his father lay in between the shrapnel, torn, covered in deep cuts: yet Oceiros is offering him his arm, to stand up and and walk in between the debris towards a medication. Lothric sobs. disoriented. Father places his lips on his forehead and faintly kisses him. He smiles again, only with his lips, his scars contorting on his pale cheeks. 

-One thing consoles me: you, Lothric. You’re my child, and the most perfect I could ever desire.-

-Father.- Lothric whispers like an idiot. Oceiros’ cerulean eyes are damp, his scars look like dried magma. He throws himself into those arms, he lets them close around him and the ample sleeves of his tunic wrap around his body like a set of wings. Tears fill his mouth and soak the fabric of the tunic. Father wouldn’t like it, and time crystallizes around Lothric waiting for the ritual blasphemy. But he feels nothing, except thin fingers running through his hair and massaging his sore shoulders.

-Cry as long as you want to, Lothric.- Oceiros’ hands are soft, thin, they stroke him and cradle him with a sweetness he doesn’t recognize. And yet it’s pleasant, and Lothric wants to sink into it like in a warm bed.

-Cry as long as you want to. It’ll do you good. I’m right here.-

His head hurts, and the faraway light of the chimney burns in his eyes like an entire forest fire. He lowers his hood to the tip of his nose, covers his eyes with his hands, sinks his face into his father’s soft tunic. Soon he’ll pass out again: he stays awaiting, so that it all can end. 

 

-Lothric?-

-He’s sleeping. Be quiet.- 

The young prince blinks, stares around himself in the blurred library. A blanket has been placed on his body, his hooded head lays on a soft pillow. Two people stand behind the table, face to face. He can’t recognize their faces, but the colors of their hair leave no doubt about their identities.

They’re kissing, and they don’t seem to notice him. _It’s not courteous to interrupt a kissing couple_ , Lothric thinks in his slumber. He sighs, and lifts his hood from his eyes to look at them better. 

It’s not like their usual kisses. They’re not tangled onto one another. But they hold each other’s hand as if something could rip them away from each other forever. 

-He was very tired. Let him sleep, Gwynevere. He needs to let go of the pain.-

The figure that hasn’t spoken lets go of the other’s hands and turns to the sofa. It lifts a book up, closing it, and stares at the cover.

-Gravelord Sword Dance? Oh, Osi…-

-In the kingdom of Nito, every dead one has room for themself. I hope out Lorian doesn’t feel lonely. He was so sociable.- A sigh, and the other figure closes by them in a tired hug.-News from Emma?-

-She’ll come back in two days, but she’s still very fatigued. She has woven a crown of wildflowers for Lorian’s grave.- 

The man sits down, shaking his head. The woman strokes his hair. 

-And what about Sulyvahn?-

-Confined in his rooms, watched over by knights.- 

-That won’t suffice!- the man’s voice is a growl. -That man is slippery. He stripped me willingly, I know it. We have to lock him up, or he could…-

-Be quiet, Osi. You may wake Lorian up.-

_Lorian is already awake_ , the prince thinks. He stays silent, motionless. The two figures are turned towards one another, the one standing sits next to the other and wraps her arm around his shoulder. 

-I apologize.- he says. -I’m sorry. That man will drive me to insanity. How can I testify what he has done to me without proof or witnesses?-

-It’ll be alright, my beloved. You’re not alone. I’m here for you. I believe you. I’ll help you. You’re the king, never forget it.-

They embrace again, faintly sighing. Lorian would love to be there watching them. One evening, before falling asleep, he had told him “I want a great romance like Mother and Father’s”. Now he has to sleep alone. He suddenly feels sad, and he sniffles: too late does he realize that his parents are in the room with him. He shuts his eyes, paralyzed. Steps close on him, a thin hands brushes on his head. He begs for it to go away soon: those courteous fingers feel like Lorian.

-Watch him sleep.- It’s Mother talking. -Sleep well, poor dear. He must have been in such pain.-

-He is. I believe talking did him good. He even mentioned the First Flame.-

Silence. Lothric’s stomach tenses. The hand stroking him removes itself, finally.

-That Flame can go rot. We can’t lose another one.- Mother’s voice is as hard as steel. Father loudly gasps, clumsy steps slam against the floor. 

-Gwynevere, you always said…-

-I know what I said, Oceiros. That too can go rot. Now more than ever I’m not ready to see Lothric in that pyre. And neither have you ever been. Tell me, are you ready to see our only son burn?-

-I’d sooner burn myself. Lothric is so young, so good. How could we have been so blind?-

_Our grandfather was the first who ever gave himself to the First Flame, and Mother doesn’t like to talk about him_. Lothric only saw the great Lord Gwyn in portraits. For a moment he imagines his father in the Kiln of the First Flame, white ash in his hair, flames dancing on his diaphanous skin. He chills. He has had enough of loss. 

-No, Osi. Don’t give up.- Mother takes his hands. She sobs. -Lothric is here and he’ll never burn. Nobody will burn here. I swear it on our love.-

They turn back to him, Lothric sighs, motionless. Mother and Father kneel by him, as if the sofa he lays upon was an altar. 

-Lothric needs many things, my beloved. I want his life to be full, perfect, for him to trust us.-

Mother doesn’t answer. She curls on herself, arms crossed to her chest, and brings her hands to her face. Father embraces her from behind, in silence. 

-I only want him to _live_.- the queen whimpers. -Him, at least. Lorian was so happy, so lively.- 

Lothric clenches his fists. If Sulyvahn was indeed right about the Flame, the danger it represents is done for. And Lorian was the price to get him away from it.

_Or maybe the Flame is a noble end, and Mother and Father have been doubly robbed_. Lothric throws himself to the side, lowering his hood. 

-Hello.- 

They rise to look at him, moving away from one another, as if every gesture caused intense pain to their joints. Lothric knows that feeling closely: he doesn’t recognize it on the bodies of the rulers of Lothric.

-Hello, little one. How are you?-

The prince removes his hair from his face. Black stripes of kajal run down his parents’ cheeks, their eyes are reddened and bloodshot. Their hair seem to vanish under the black hoods of their mourning capes. 

They give him a tired smile, offer them their open hands. 

Lothric nods and lends his own over. 


End file.
